Don't You Cry No More
by Qrstn
Summary: What makes endings so difficult? Is it because of what happens? Is it because it hurts to let go? Probably both. See, all Dean Winchester wants is a perfect ending for them. An ending where all is right, no one is hurting and they're at peace. Happy. Who are we to deny him that? After all, no one deserves it more than them. My take on the final scene of the last episode ever.


_A/N: Okay. So. I've been busy. School's a pain. I'm stuck there for nine hours and I only get home after two more._

_There's something about this that leaves me unsatisfied, so I'm hoping you guys could tell me why in a review. Seriously. I live for reviews._

_This fic kinda goes with a particular version of a particular song, and I think it works best if you listen to it. It's the lullaby version of Carry On My Wayward Son by Kansas. Pretty sure you can find it on Youtube. It was what inspired me to make this, actually._

**_Full Summary:_**_ What makes endings so difficult? Is it because of what happens? Is it because it hurts to let go? Probably both._

_See, all Dean Winchester wants is a perfect ending for them. An ending where all is right, no one is hurting and they're at peace. Happy._

_Who are we to deny him that? After all, no one deserves it more than them._

**_Disclaimer: I own jack squat._**

* * *

There are those moments in the movies - the split second before it all ends. The split second that decides who wins and who loses, who lives and who doesn't. For them, this is it.

Big, dark wings shielded two men. Brothers. The one in front of them was not a man, but an angel. His wings towered over all of them, the sheer size of it enough to intimidate almost anything.

He looked back at the two behind him, and smiled. A true smile that made his otherwise dead eyes light up and the corners wrinkle, so full of warmth and love for them.

"Thank you," he whispered to them, "for everything."

The two men only smiled back at him, genuine but weak, before turning to each other. There's pain in their eyes. And sorrow and anger and vengeance and terror. But all of it goes away, just for this moment.

"Bitch," was all the shorter man said, grin turning into a handsome smirk.

His brother's smile widened a fraction. "Jerk."

Team Free Will reached for each other's hands.

The screen goes black. And then, we hear a tune. It sounded like it's coming from a music box. We hear a soft, beautiful voice over the sound of the rain. A woman. She was singing. It was a song familiar to all of us, a song that somehow represented our love for our heroes. Only this time, it was sung in a much gentler tone, like a mother singing to her baby.

_Carry on, my wayward son..._  
_There'll be peace when you are done._  
_Lay your weary head to rest._  
_Don't you cry no more..._

As she sings, the black fades out, showing us names. We all recognize them. They were a big part of the story; people we learned to love over the years.

Our fallen heroes' gravestones shone in the path of the sun's ray. From Mary Winchester to Kevin Tran to the angels, we see them all. We see their graves, and their bodies at the moment their last breath escapes them.

Jess, John, Ash, Jo, Ellen, Adam, Bobby, Kevin...

_Once I rose above the noise and confusion..._

And in the middle of a beautiful garden was a large stone. A stone bearing the names of the fallen angels. Some of them we remember, and some of them we don't.

Lucifer, Gabriel, Michael, Raphael, Anael, Balthazar, Samandriel...

And the most recently-carved: Castiel.

The woman continues to sing.

_Though my eyes could see, I still was a blind man..._

The next shot was on a clearing, a newly-formed clearing, in fact. The ruins of war. There were small clusters of fire around the area, and bodies were all over the place. Blood covered nearly every inch of it.

The most noticeable feature, though, was a lone tree, at the very center, where the outlines of three men leaning against it can be seen. They were very close together, their hands linked, as if the last thing they wanted to see, to hear, to feel, was each other.

Only one of them was still breathing.

He was wearing ripped jeans, a leather jacket and a torn shirt. His breathing was labored, his face bloody. He was struggling to live, if only for a while longer, not because he doesn't want to die, but because he wanted to say goodbye first.

You remember his name. Dean.

You could see two other men with him. He dragged them there. He moved them so that they would be together, until the very end.

_Carry on, my wayward son..._

One was a dark-haired man with a dirty trenchcoat. He was leaning on his friend's shoulder. You remember him, too. The one they called Castiel. The one with the piercing orbs of the most striking blue that you will never _ever _see again.

You see scorch marks on the ground beneath him, and on the two men beside him. Scorch marks in the shape of wings. They are the marks of an angel's last attempt to protect those he loved the most.

_Masquerading as a man with a reason..._

The other man was the youngest. His head was lying on his brother's lap, with one arm draped across his bare stomach. His plaid shirt and his jacket were nowhere to be found.

He looked so peaceful. If you didn't know any better, you would say he was only sleeping.

The older brother struggled to take his jacket off, barely moving, as if he didn't want to wake and disturb his friends. And oh, it hurt, it hurt so bad to even move, but, damn it, he tried, he still did it, he still tried to tuck his brother in, because his job was to take care of him, and he failed, he _fucking failed_ and so he thought it was the least he could do. Because what good was he if he couldn't even get this one thing right?

"That's not true, Dean," I know his brother would say. "You protected me the best you could, even when you didn't have to. I can't ask for a better brother."

Dean knew it, too. He just didn't believe it. He never did.

_On a stormy sea of moving emotion..._

He draped it over his brother's body. The man sighed, prepared to take his last breath. His hand gently caressing his brother's damp hair, you hear him whisper in a hoarse voice. Dean closed his eyes.

"Goodnight, Sammy."

And Dean Winchester died with a smile on his face.

_Carry on, my wayward son..._

The screen once again fades to black as the woman sings the last verse.

And then the last shot is shown. In a forest, parked and hidden, was a car. It was old, but it was well cared for. You know this car; it played a big role in the story. It was where the brothers spent most of their lives, where they would sing along to the same records over and over, where they would have a beer, and sit and stare at the endless sky. The soldiers stuck in the ash tray and the lego bricks wedged in the heating vents were still there; the only sign someone ever cared for it.

You know, even though they never had a real home, they were never entirely homeless. Because this 1967 Chevrolet Impala was always there, and it never failed them.

As the last notes are sung, the screen fades to black, for the last time.

_Don't you cry no more..._

The only thing you can hear was the rain. And even that was fading. Time's up. Your deal has come due. It's over.

It was painful, their journey. And no one will ever know that. No one will ever tell the story of these brave soldiers as they fought for us. No one will know of their sacrifice. To them, Samuel and Dean Winchester were just fictional characters.

But recognition is something they never asked for. They never even asked to be thanked. Because to them, it was not important. They only ever cared about other people's happiness, and they never cared about their own.

Even though they were the ones who deserved it the most.

That's okay, though, because they're going to get it. They're going to be rewarded with eternal happiness. God will make sure of that.

"My boys," their mother would say once they crossed. "My beautiful, brave boys."

Their father will look up at them and smile, because he knows. He knows what his three sons have done for the world, and he could not be more proud of them.

Their Uncle Bobby would hug them tight, greeting them with one simple word. "Idjits."

And Crowley would smirk on his chair, sipping some of the finest scotch in America, and while he would have wanted to gut them a few years back, he doesn't now. Instead, he laughs heartily, remembering the Squirrel, his pet angel and the Moose.

And Castiel's brothers would greet him warmly, each with a thankful grin on their face. "You have done well, brother," they'd say, and they would pat him on the back and shake his hand, truly proud of their little oddball angel.

And he would fly with them. Fly high above the clouds, and he'd take them there. He'd show his friends all there is to see.

All of those people, all of those beings who died for this purpose and those that didn't, everyone that stood by them would smile because it's the end, and weep because they're gone. But you know what? It's okay. It really was, for all of them.

Our heroes have finally risen up to paradise, where they will no longer feel pain. Not anymore. Not ever again. And it is the perfect ending to their story.

At last, they are at peace.

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_A/N: Right. So, erm.. _

_As usual, reviews are welcome!_


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